Wrath
by illyria-pffyffin
Summary: Sam was angry at Frodo's decision to leave Middle-earth.


**Wrath**

Sometimes it took as little as going through the wardrobes and touching your shirts and breeches and waistcoats again. The deep green coat you wore on my wedding day. The embroidered blue waistcoat you put on when you gave back Old Flourdumpling his right to preside over banquets, just so you could disappear into your study and be forgotten. The ivory shirt you had on when you whispered, "Can I hold her, Sam?" before reaching out to take Elanor from my arms, your face shining with wonder and adoration. The white nightshirt I eased over your head when you were so ill you had no other choice but to suffer the indignity of letting me help you with even the simplest chores. Sometimes it took as little as that for the wrath to come surging in my breast.

What made you decide that the fate of those people—most of them mightier than you—lay in your hands? What conceited, foolish notion came into your mind to speak of taking that vile thing when everyone was looking elsewhere, too fearful, too despairing to step forward and do something other than arguing back and forth? Was that another one of your rash, thoughtless action, sir, like the one you pulled while we were at the Prancing Pony? Didn't you see that it was a hopeless risk you were taking? Didn't you see that it was going to be the death of you, that reckless boldness of yours?

Sometimes it was the sheer ignorance of others that did it. A parcel came weeks after you left, a book from a distant cousin of yours. I read your name on the package and the sun was suddenly shrouded as anger—cold, dark and sharp—rushed through me. It was only the fear that I might trouble Rosie that stopped me from shouting my helpless rage at the sky.

You could have chosen to come back to the life you left behind: visits with friends, private parties that shook the entire Hill with their noise of unchecked merriment, trips and jaunts and nights at the Green Dragon. You could have it all back. Instead you withdrew and let people forget you. If you thought that it would lessen the grief and unnecessary uproar upon your leaving, well, sir, I thought you knew us better than to take too lightly our love and devotion to you.

You could have chosen to forget. You were young still, with many years before you, promising better things to remember than those memories of horror you held on to in your dreams, in the distant look in your eyes, in your stubborn refusal to talk about what pained you. Why, you even shielded your heart in that book you wrote of our journey. Didn't you see that letting those memories take hold of your mind was like letting a wound fester untreated? Why couldn't you let it all go?

You could have chosen to fight back. You decided to go on that day when we saw the Black Gate clanged shut before us. You pushed on through that dark, foul-smelling lair of that spider. You were wounded, you were spent, you were thirsty and starved and weak, you had lost all hopes of seeing the task through, but you struggled to cross that dreary plain. You could have ended everything, easily, that day when the uruks forced us to march with whips to our legs, but you persisted. You could have surrendered that day when you had no strength left to keep your hand from reaching for It, but you called for me instead. You had gone through the worst of torment, but you never relented. Then we came back, and all you had to do was to enjoy the life you nearly lost in your attempt to save others'. I should think that all of that pain and suffering would make you cling to that precious gift with more tenacity, giving you the vigor and passion to relish everything you had won back with tears, and blood, and the sacrifice of your very own soul. But no. You retreated. You gave in. You left.

You could have chosen to stay.

Sometimes it was me. When Frodo-lad was born my world was steeped in so much joy I did not think I could possibly be happier.

Then I remembered you and thought that you should have been here and shared this bliss with me. Then I whispered your namesake his name, and I could not stay my tears. Then I remembered that day in Cormallen, when everyone praised you in a deafening clamor, and that day by the sea, when I watched you walk among the tall figures of the elves and Gandalf, leaving me, leaving us, leaving this land that you loved, leaving on your very last journey, your very last.

And I felt that anger rose within me again, drowning me in hot fury that left me shaking and breathless.

But this time I was not angry at you, sir. It was the Dark Lord I despised and hated. He it was that spawned the seed of all those terror and madness. From him sprung the discord, malice, despair. and grief that engulfed us all. You set your heart to undid what he made, to battle him, to thwart him, and hopeless though you knew the Quest was, ill-prepared and much hurt though you were, you accomplished what you sought to do. He was a great deal more powerful than you, but you, with kindness, with mercy, with unflagging endurance, brought him down. And you came back to us, broken, beyond mending. He it was that caused you—my dearest, truest friend—all the pain and sorrow that drove you to flee your home, seeking your rest and healing beyond the sea. It was him I loathed most.

Sometimes it was me. When I remembered you, when I thought about you, when I wondered if you've found solace and happiness where you were now, sometimes I got so angry at myself for not trusting you enough, for doubting your choices and wisdom. When I missed you so badly it hurt to see the cup you used to drink from, sometimes I got so mad at myself for crying, when I knew that you would have wished me to always, until the day we see each other again, enjoy the life you have gifted me.

-fin-


End file.
